The Heron's Flood

By Evelyn Walsh

Norah Furlong's abusive husband Tom is dead. Norah is accused of his murder. As she waits for the case to come to court she is supported by her cousin Sinead Breslin. The women become firm friends and both reflect on their pasts and on the decisions they made (or failed to make) which brought them to this point in their lives.

The Heron's Flood is a poignant exploration of the intricacies of human relationships. A study of life, loss and - above all - of love, in all its guises.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evelyn Walsh
• Release date: Oct 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465742438

Evelyn Walsh

Born in 1961, Evelyn waited until she reached her majority at the age of forty and then decided what she wanted to be when she grew up. She didn't really decide, she fell into writing while trying to do something else. She said 'H'mmm! I think i like this,' and so continued scribbling, eventually getting some stories published and in 2010 ghostwriting 'His Name is Rebecca' Rebecca De Havalland's memoir. Evelyn is now releasing her debut novel 'The Heron's Flood'. Debut. At fifty years of age.Hmmmm.

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THE HERON’S FLOOD

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright Evelyn Walsh © 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author, including reproductions intended for non-commercial use. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other person. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you'd like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

All characters in this novel are fictional and any resemblance to anyone person/persons living or dead is coincidental. Tibraden in Leitrim is also a fictional location.

Cover design by www.designforwriters.com. Photography by Kenneth Walsh

A paperback edition of this book (ISBN-13: 978-1463765910) is also available.

www.ev-allthisandheaventoo.blogspot.com

For Anne Griffith – a very special lady

Chapter One

October 2005

She sits on a kitchen chair, staring through the open door into the utility room. The room’s normal spotless sterility – white tiled walls, washing machine and drier, white melamine presses housing all her cleaning products – is now marred by the crumpled body of her husband, his chest leaking blood and other matter onto her well-scrubbed linoleum.

She worries a little about the pool of blood. At first there had been so much bright red stickiness. Then the flow had trailed off to a trickle. Just as well, she thinks, if it leaks under the washing machine the whole thing would have to be shifted.

Norah sighs, she has never felt so tired and there is so much to do. She would like to sit here forever. Another while and then she will see to it all. She studies the hands in her lap, turns them this way and that. There are a few flecks of dried blood stuck in the cracked skin of her right index finger. She picks at it to dislodge it. His or hers? His, she thinks

The house seems so quiet. No banging doors or blaring telly, no noisy whistling or barging maleness. Nothing but an off the station buzzing from the radio lying face down beside Tom’s body.

She looks up at the kitchen clock. 10.30pm. Where have the hours gone? No point ringing the station house, Denis Bradley will be long gone home.

She has to ring somebody though. She can’t leave Tom lying in a heap on the floor until morning. She stands up, cold and stiff. Her skirt, pants and tights are still damp. She realises without surprise that she has been sitting for over three hours, thinking, not thinking. She walks to the phone on the kitchen counter and lifts the receiver.

999.

How easy it is to press the same button three times, she thinks. That’s probably why they use it as the emergency number.

‘Emergency services, which service please.’

Norah can’t find her voice and when she manages to croak out ‘Gardai. Ambulance. No – Gardai. Yes. Definitely,’ it doesn’t sound like her. The words seem to have come from far away, a tiny childlike voice. She can hear her seven-year old self in that voice. There is a clicking and a whirring then:

‘Gardai?’

‘It’s my husband. I think. No. He is… he’s dead. I need someone to come…to tell me what to do.’

‘Alright love. What’s your name?’ The steady male voice speaks slowly.

‘Norah. Norah Furlong.’

‘Are you alright Norah? Are you hurt? Hurt in any way? Is there anyone else there?’

‘No. We’re on our own. I. No… I’m alright. It’s him.’

‘That’s good, Norah. Good. Now, where are you Norah? And can you tell me what happened to your husband?’

‘Tibraden. We live in Tibraden. There was a terrible row. Terrible. He.. I..’

‘Where exactly is Tibraden, Norah? Tell me the nearest big town.’

‘Mohill, about ten miles from Mohill, on the Carrick road. Leitrim. Our house is about five miles west of the village.’

As she describes the location of her house and the easiest way to it, she can feel herself reconnecting, becoming more self-aware. She feels as if she has been hovering over the room for the last few hours, abstractedly watching her physical self.

‘Ok, Norah. Norah? Are you still there?’

Norah can hear activity and the crackle of other voices behind the voice in her ear.

‘Yes. Yes I’m here.’

‘Norah, are you sure your husband is dead? Can you go and check, make sure he’s not breathing? Can you do that for me Norah?’ He sounds so concerned. His voice reminds Norah of Uncle Frank, the way Uncle Frank would say her name frequently as he talked to her. Frank always gave her name weight, importance, reminding both of them who she was.

‘Yes. Yes, I’ll do that.’

‘Don’t hang up now Norah,’ the voice rises a little. ‘Just go to your husband and see if there is any sign of life. It’s important. Will you do that, Norah?’ His voice has more urgency now and Norah wants to do the right thing for him.

‘Yes, yes, I’ll check for a pulse, will I? Under the jawbone – isn’t it? Or the wrist – aren’t they the best places?’ Her voice childish again.

‘That’s it Norah. You go and see now, then come back and tell me, alright? Don’t hang up, just go and see and come back and tell me.’

Norah puts the receiver on the counter and walks to the open door between the kitchen and the utility. Her stockinged feet feel cold and she stands at the door for a moment before she steps down into the utility room. It feels like the biggest step she has ever taken.

He has settled into classic recovery position. On his right side, right arm trapped under his body, left hand curled around the handle of the garden shears that is lodged half-way into his chest. His head tilts slightly downwards, chin towards chest, eyes open, blank and staring at the brownish stain starting to crust on his shirt. The slight bend of his knees reminds Norah of a picture she saw once of a child sleeping.

Norah bends and puts her hand in front of his mouth, ready to run if there is any breath, then she places her fingers under his chin to feel for a pulse beneath the stubble. She draws back quickly. He’s so cold. It’s not normal, that coldness. She notices the bluish-grey hue of the skin on his face and arms. There is no life here.

She steps back quickly into the kitchen and pulls the door closed behind her, feeling a momentary terror that he – or his spirit, soul, remaining malingering stubborn himness, whatever – will grab her by the ankle, pull her down, punish her.

‘No. No. There’s no pulse. He’s dead.’ Her eyes fill and she can feel all the little veins around her nose and mouth pulsing with imminent tears.

‘Ok, Norah. Is there anyone with you or anyone you can call?’

Norah pauses.

‘No, no. There’s no one. We’ve no family. Just me and him.’

‘Norah, a car is already on its way and an ambulance will be with you very shortly.’ He sounds so organised. Norah is glad someone is looking after things for her.

‘Alright, will I just stay here?’

‘Yes Norah. Can you put on all the lights at the front of the house, so the driver knows which house to go to? I’m hanging up now but I’ll ring you back in ten minutes to check you’re okay.’

‘Wait, wait. What’s your name?’ Norah panics, she needs to keep him talking, she wants him to look after her.

‘I’m Cathal, Norah. Cathal Tierney – I’ll talk to you soon.’ Then a click and the buzz of the disengaged line.

Norah replaces the receiver and notices a dirty brown smudge on it from her hand. She goes to the kitchen sink for a dishcloth to wipe away the mess.

Then she stops. Maybe she shouldn’t. What about forensics and things? All those shows on TV, people in white suits and boots, dressed like that so they wouldn’t – what was the word? – contaminate, yes, contaminate the scene.

But she’s not trying to hide anything, so surely they won’t be annoyed if she just cleans up a little. Her hands anyway. She has to wash her hands. She hates her hands being dirty. She doesn’t mind in the garden, she likes the feel of the earth in her hands there. But not indoors, dirty hands have no place indoors. She’s sure it will be alright.

Then she has to put on the lights in the hall and living room so Cathal, the gardai and the forensic people and the ambulance can find her. She turns on the tap and presses the nailbrush into the soap. She starts scrubbing at her hands. The swishing of the nailbrush and the splashing of the water soothes. She starts to hum, then stops. She shouldn’t hum. She dries her hands thoroughly and then the sink, automatically polishing behind the taps. Tom likes the sink to shine.

Replacing the towel on its hook she turns and peers through the patterned glass of the utility door at the distorted pile that is her husband. She half expects him to sit up. Her legs feel weak , they tremble as if she has been ill in bed for a long time.

Supporting herself by placing her hands along the wall she makes her way down the hallway. She switches on the lights in the living room and pulls back the net curtains, illuminating the gravelled driveway outside. She hears the sirens in the distance.

Why the sirens she wonders? There isn’t any traffic worth blasting out of the way. Probably a young garda. Excited by the thought of his first murder.

Murder.

She stands and waits, staring through her mirrored image in the window to the black October night.

March 1975

The child in the camel-coloured coat stood at the school gates and stared up the quiet road with fierce concentration. She banged her schoolbag against her knees and counted under her breath.

‘One, two, three, four,…she’ll be here before I get to twenty,’ she thought.

But twenty came and went and six or seven more twenties too. The road was so quiet it was scary. It was normally filled with the colour and noise of over five hundred primary school girls, rushing to or from the building. Mothers pushing prams and buggies adding to the commotion, chatting to each other, shouting goodbyes or greetings to daughters at the gates.

The red-bricked building squatted silently behind Norah, dull now that it had disgorged its contents for the day. The black surface of the playground, still glistening from earlier rain, needed running feet and shouting laughter to give it meaning. Norah was dwarfed by the big black gates which creaked in the wind. She glanced nervously about; she wondered had a spell been put on the school and the road, perhaps everybody was sleeping or dead.

‘That mother is never late,’ thought Sr. Pascal as she approached the heavy gates to lock them.

‘Norah Breslin. Are you alright?’

Norah jumped.

‘Oh! Sister, Mammy is late.’ Her eyes filled with tears.

‘Don’t cry child. I’m sure she’ll be here in a moment, I’ll wait with you.’

Norah looked up at the nun, her kindly words didn’t soften the severity of her normally stern face. She wasn’t nicknamed Sr. Pascal the Rascal for nothing.

‘She looks okay,’ thought Norah. But the Rascal’s temper and her quickness to mete out slaps with the ruler were legend. Fear of rousing this anger by a misplaced word overcame Norah’s fear of walking home alone.

‘Oh! I just remembered Sister. Mammy said to come home on my own. She had to take my baby sister to the clinic.’

‘Aren’t you the silly goose, forgetting an important thing like that and getting all upset for nothing!’ Sr. Pascal clanged shut the gates and started to apply the padlock. ‘Off home with you now as quickly as you can. Your mother will be waiting for you.’

Norah walked slowly up the road, squinting in a sudden burst of spring sunshine. She was sure that any moment she would see Mammy running towards her, pushing Louise in the pram.

Her bag was heavy, it banged against her bottom; she normally put it into the pram where Louise could bite on the straps.

‘Mammy, Mammy where are you?’ She thought, her plain, plump little face scrunched up with anxiety.

She glanced back at the deserted school gates. If she went back there to wait The Rascal might come out again. She would be really cross if she knew Norah had told a lie.

It was only a white lie though, not a mortaller.

They had learned all about the different types of lies and sins for their First Holy Communion in May. Norah had her dress and shoes already.

She stopped, smiling, the frown lifting from her face and showing that magical internal brightness that shines so easily from children.

That’s where Mammy was!

She’d gone into town to get Norah’s Communion bag and medal. Daddy had waited for her this morning and given her a lift in. She must have been delayed or missed the bus home. Or maybe the bus broke down and they had to wait for another. Relieved and pleased that she had worked out where her mother was, Norah started to skip up the lane that led to the main road.

The lane was as deserted as the area around the school had been. Set between the convent wall and the back gardens of a terrace of houses, it was used daily as a short cut by large numbers of school children and their parents.

It looked awfully long and grey to Norah. She had never noticed that before. The high grey wall of the convent on one side blocked much of the light. Set into a six-foot wall on the other side were the wooden back gates to the terrace of houses. To chase away her fears Norah started to run and count the gates as she passed. There were sixteen gates to the end of the lane. She knew that. She used to count them with her friend Valerie as they ran along ahead of Mammy and Valerie’s Mam.

‘One, two, three, four, five…’

She stopped. Outside the second-last gate stood the formidable figure of Prince – the bulldog who terrorised all passers-by. If Norah’s mother was with her she would have said,

‘Don’t look at him, keep walking. Ignore him if he barks.’

But Norah always noticed Mammy gripping the pram handle a little tighter if she had to pass Prince.

Norah heard a whimpering noise and realised the sound had come from her throat. She couldn’t go back to the school and face the irritation of Sr. Pascal. Maybe she should wait awhile and see if a grown-up would come along. Then Norah would be able to follow them up the lane.

She stood uncertainly, her brain buzzing, heart pounding.

Prince stared at her. Then he scuttled forward a few feet rolling his shoulders. He growled, a low threatening rumble. Norah jumped with fright and she shouted,

‘Go away, go away.’

She moved back to the nearest gate and started to bang her bag against it. Prince was galloping the short distance towards her. She screamed at him again,

‘Go away, go home.’

She turned her face away from the advancing dog, closed her eyes and huddling against the flaking red paint of the gate she banged frantically, screaming,

‘Help, Help, Oh! Please, please somebody help me.’

Prince was upon her. Barking ferociously. A taut bundle of muscle, his whole body a coiled spring bouncing at her heels. The noise of him barking and the blood rushing in her head was deafening.

‘G’wan, get out of it,’ a woman’s voice shrieked. She banged a dustbin lid against the wall and stamped her foot at the brute. Prince retreated a few steps, still snarling.

Norah’s arm was grasped and she was yanked quickly through the red gate which was then slammed shut behind her.

‘You’re alright, love. Listen, listen, you’re alright.’ A grey-haired woman hunkered down in front of Norah, still holding her firmly by the upper arm, watery blue eyes gazing kindly at the distressed face of the child.

‘Bloody nuisance that he is! Listen to me, now. Listen. You’re alright. He just barks and makes a lot of noise. Stand up to him and he backs off.’

Then she stood up and muttered,

‘Not that that’s much good to you when you’re petrified, you poor divil.’

‘Oh! Oh!’ Norah couldn’t speak, she even found it hard to breathe. Tears were coursing down her face and all she wanted to do was hug the woman and howl with relief.

‘Come on in pet, you can go out through my front door onto the road. Where do you live?’

The woman brought Norah up a narrow garden path into the kitchen of the house. Norah’s legs were shaking and to her horror she realised she had wet herself. The wee had spread down through her navy wool tights and left them wet, heavy and uncomfortable.

‘45 Willow Park Crescent,’ she managed to snuffle out.

‘That’s off the road up past the post office, isn’t it?’ queried the woman.

Norah nodded. The woman glanced at her watch then handed Norah a biscuit from a tin on the counter.

‘I’d walk up with you, but…well, you’re alright now aren’t you? I’ll go down to Matt Brown about that bloody dog again this evening. You tell your Daddy to call into him too. Maybe they’ll learn to keep that back gate shut one of these days. Now, here – wipe your eyes and nose. Are you okay?’

Norah took the proffered tissue and nodded again, the biscuit stuffed into her mouth. The crumbs fell from her lips and she swiped at her tears and runny nose with the tissue. She sniffed and looked at the woman who laughed and patted her on the head.

‘You poor thing, you’ll be alright before you’re twice married. C’mon with me now.’

Norah was led through the kitchen and a narrow hallway and out the front door. The woman pointed up the road.

‘See where the lane comes out, love’

Norah nodded again, peering timidly up the road in case Prince decided to emerge this side of the lane.

‘Don’t worry, he never comes out this way. Off you go now. I’ll watch until you get to the other side of the zebra crossing.’

Norah moved away from the safety of the woman’s front door. Her wet tights made walking uncomfortable and to the fear of meeting Prince was added the fear of meeting any of her classmates. They might notice and laugh at her.

‘Oh, Mammy! Mammy. Why don’t you come?’ She prayed fiercely as she stood waiting to cross the road.

‘Go on now, it’s safe,’ shouted her saviour from the doorstep.

Norah ran across the road then turned and waved her thanks. At the post office she turned the corner and walked slowly up the three hundred yard stretch that was Grove Road. At the top of Grove Road she turned right into the crescent of bungalows where she lived.

It was a pleasant little housing estate; thirty-three semi-detached bungalows set around a small green open space. The Breslin home unremarkable among its neighbours. Safe, ordinary, comfortable.

Norah went up her driveway and around to the back of the house. She tried the back door but it was locked. She moved back into the garden and stood up on the swing seat to see if her mother was moving around in the kitchen. But the blank kitchen window stared back at her, empty and silent.

She returned to the porch at the side of the house. If she stood on her tip-toes she could just about reach the door knocker. She banged it up and down several times, face flattened against the half-moon patterned glass. But no shadowy figure appeared on the other side of the door to welcome her home.

Eventually Norah stopped knocking and curled herself into a ball in a corner of the porch. Nobody could see her. She would be safe until Mammy came. She cried and cried until sleep blessedly overtook her.

As dusk settled on the suburban housing estate, two Gardái walked in uncomfortable silence up the driveway of the Breslin home. Their duty to break bad news to those at this house. A dreadful car accident that morning had taken the lives of all three occupants of Dan Breslin’s car.

A lump came to the younger man’s throat when they discovered a cold, scared child. She looked like an abandoned teddy-bear, and the garda could not but cry when he realised she was to be the recipient of the news.

Chapter Two

October 2005

I first heard of Tom Furlong’s death – without knowing who he was – on the car radio as I snailed my way through tedious Dublin traffic. A man found dead in suspicious circumstances. Another person being held for questioning. The fact that the death was in county Leitrim, in an area bordering my home county of Sligo, did register the death more firmly in my consciousness. Enough for me to comment to work colleagues about the remoteness of the area when the topic came up for discussion at tea-break.

Tea-break in the civil service. Seed bed of malicious gossip. Breeding ground for all discontent. Desultory conversation about the goings-on of various soap characters turns to reflection (wildly generalised) on the mental and physical make-up of one or another of our colleagues. Someone will always have a gripe about the shortcomings of the canteen menu, which will lead to a free-for-all of aggrieved complaints about the conditions we work in – the lack of car-parking, the cold, the heat, the lack of air, the draughts, etcetera, etcetera.

Of course it always finishes (ten minutes later than it ought) with mutinous mutterings against ‘them’. ‘They’ never listen to anything we say, hence the state of the office, the section, the department, the government and of course the country. ‘They’ will always let you down. Thankfully, ‘they’ will also always be there to blame for everything that goes wrong, within or outside our sphere of influence.

Apparently this phenomenon is not exclusive to the civil service, it exists in every organisation, large and small. People will find the lowest common denominator, identify a common enemy and unite in opposition. To our immense satisfaction we can vent our grievances without having to propose any solutions. Where would the world be without tea-breaks?

Three days after I had heard of the death in Leitrim, Rob greeted my customary late arrival into the office with a waving yellow post-it.

‘Sinead. Late everyday – your Ma rang. Twice. And you left your mobile here last night and it’s been driving me mad with ‘I Will Survive’ at regular intervals. It is SO naff, will you P..L..L..EASE change it!’

‘Thanks Rob,’ I grinned at him. ‘Did Mother say what she wanted? Never, ever let her hear you calling her ‘Ma’. Based on the brief phone conversations she has had with you she seems to consider you a good influence on me. She always asks after that ‘nice young man’. I think she may be considering you as possible marriageable material for her deeply disappointing daughter.’ I laughed at his horrified face.

‘She